


Something, Somewhere Healed

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-02
Updated: 2006-07-02
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Chests, thighs, hips, hands, hearts — everywhere there are scars, everywhere there have always been scars.





	Something, Somewhere Healed

There’s a white line along the tip of Sam’s thumb that Dean doesn’t recognize, a small, rough ridge he can feel against the inside of his wrist when Sam’s gripping it, lightly, the kind of hold with just enough love to override the fear.

“I was making a stir fry,” Sam says, flushing, when he asks. “Couple years ago.”

“You chopped your thumb _cooking_?” asks Dean in disbelief.

Sam goes redder. “Yeah, well, it was for Jess,” he says, “and you’d just called.”

Oh. _That_ time.

Dean shuts up.

\---

Dean’s scars are hard to see — ironic, Sam thinks, or maybe not. But when his hand is on Dean’s back, he can feel the thin lines, crisscrossing, just enough to make his skin a little less than smooth. Some of them he knows, like the long slash from a knife-wielding phantom that they faced on Sam’s second hunt, or the marks of werewolf’s teeth, Sam’s first real kill, because it was mauling Dean and that was enough to make his shot as perfect even as Dad’s. Here there’s a burn mark — Dean pushing him out of a building in flames, Sam struggling back just a little too hard.

And then there are the ones he doesn’t know, the ones from that four-year gap in their brotherhood. Sometimes, Sam wants to ask where they came from, what their stories are, but when he does, he only gets short statements, as if Dean catalogues these marks by perpetrator and state — ”Black Dog. Minnesota,” or “Succubus. Georgia.” That’s not what Sam wants. He wants to know what _happened_ , whether this was going after Dad or that only happened because he was drunk or if he was ever thinking of Sam.

Those are the details Dean never gives him.

\---

Winter and nightmares. Sam’s lips are chapped and dry, and they crack under Dean’s kiss. He tries to draw away when he tastes blood, but Sam’s hand comes to the back of his head and pulls him close, struggling, needing, as if without this, he’ll fall a thousand feet. So Dean gives it to him, anchors him — keeps him safe, just like he always has. Both their lips slick with blood, both their bodies aching, both their minds numb, or perhaps only now beginning to thaw.

\---

Chests, thighs, hips, hands, hearts — everywhere there are scars, everywhere there have always been scars. Undressing in a flurry, they don’t speak, because it’s hands and mouths, searching, seeking, joining them together, skin to skin. Sam moans when Dean falls into him, can feel Dean’s shuddering gasp against the back of his neck, Dean’s fingers curled around his cock, Dean’s lips skimming across his shoulderblades, stopping at the jagged little mark where he fell once, sparring, on broken glass. Dean’s hips roll as he thrusts inward, fingers squeezing just like that, and Sam sees stars as he comes. There are a thousand things to say, a thousand things he can’t articulate, like the way he needs Dean, needs this and everything else, like the way he’s sorry, so sorry, and the way he thinks his soul would be nothing but a burning line to the demon if Dean weren’t here to temper it, to keep him safe from himself.

All he can muster are gasps and moans and _oh god Dean_ s, but it seems like that might be saying enough, because Dean buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck and it’s _I know — Sammy, I know_ , body shaking with orgasm, hand tight in Sam’s hair.

\---

They bury Dad next to Mom in Lawrence, a plain little cemetery, a small, white gravestone. John Winchester — and underneath, no adjectives or descriptions, just the single word _Dad_.

The two of them stand there looking at it for a long time, until Dean turns with a “Let’s go” and leads the way back to the car. Sam follows him, glancing over his shoulder one last time.

“I suppose you want me to drop you off in Palo Alto, then,” says Dean without looking at him as he slides into the passenger seat.

“Palo —” starts Sam. “Oh.”

“I mean, you always said when this was done, you’d be going back,” Dean says, tough-boy voice, shrug of the shoulders.

“I,” says Sam. “No.”

Dean finally raises his head to look at him.

“I saw something in the newspaper about what looks like a haunting down in New Mexico,” Sam tells him.

There’s a beat of silence, then that half-shrug, pursed lips, double nod of the head —  _hey, sounds cool_ — and Dean turns the key in the ignition, tweaks the volume of his Metallica just a little bit louder, and they’re off and out, still broken in more ways than one, but something, somewhere healed.


End file.
